Iron Fist
by Elizabeth Collins
Summary: Wyldon loves tradition, especially during Midwinter. When he doesn't get his way, coldness and agitation ensues.


A/N: I don't mean to offend anyone by this - tradition is a wonderful thing, but I just wanted to stress Wyldon's... traditional way of doing things.

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><p><em>Iron Fist<em>

The house of Cavall was busy with adjustments, cooking, sewing, and mending. As the Midwinter festival drew closer, one man felt particularly stressed from the obligations of tradition pressing down on him. Gone was the simplicity of being training master – Lord Wyldon was now faced with two women, colours, and cooks. What was he to do but take control?

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><p>The day dawned crisp and cool. Weak sunlight came through the window, basking everyone in a pleasant, albeit feeble, light.<p>

"No, Margarry, you placed it wrong. It goes _here,_" said Lord Wyldon exasperatedly.

"Oh Da, that's _half an inch_ off! Does it really matter?"

The stocky but well-muscled man straightened. "You've been in my household long enough to know that it indeed does matter." His tone was stern and decided. "Tradition has it that the tree is in the left corner of the room, and there it shall be."

Vivienne and her daughter just rolled their eyes and went back to the extensive preparations for the winter festivities.

Wyldon amused himself by straightening ribbons and smelling scented candles, all the while criticizing his family's handiwork. "Why on earth did you place the wreath there? The entrance is where it should be hung. We are welcoming _Mithros,_ for goodness' sake."

His lady sighed gustily, glancing out the window. "Wyldon, please, relax. Midwinter isn't for another week. Must you always be so uptight?" Catching the cook's eye in the other room, Vivienne went to speak of nutmeg and cinnamon. As she and Cook chatted about the proper spice to use in a plain cake, Vivienne glanced over her shoulder to find Wyldon muttering about musty wood smells.

"Ah, what shall I do with him?" Vivienne said airily, in truth finding amusement in her husband's antics.

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><p>Mother and daughter sat docilely in the dainty drawing-room chairs at their needlework, the picture of innocence and wifely virtue. In Midwinter clothes of red and green, they were ready to walk to the grand temple of Mithros and afterwards welcome their guests.<p>

Wyldon came in with sure steps, polished boots, and a superior stare. His hawk's eyes were indeed not satisfied when they carefully surveyed his company. "Margarry, where is your sun pin? It is custom to wear it on the first night of Midwinter as a tribute to Mithros. And in case you've forgotten -"

"- it's been passed down from mother to daughter for generations; yes I know," Margarry sang mockingly.

The man's eyebrows snapped together. "I have told you again and again – do not interrupt."

In response, his wife's brown eyes glittered amusedly. "Tonight is not the time for arguments, my dear." Her rich voice was easy, tranquil.

"Yes." Wyldon spluttered, a little disoriented. "Let's be off. Margarry, do not forget your good boots. The ones with sheepskin."

"I won't, Da. I've got them right here." She shifted her foot for emphasis.

"Fine. Off we go."

Two more pairs of boots followed the head of the family and the small party departed the house into the fierce, blowing snow.

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><p>The women got out their lacy handkerchiefs and brushed flecks of snow out of their sodden hair. Wyldon however, disregarded the steady <em>drip-drip<em> of water trailing from his face to the floor as he gazed at the sun disk, placed carefully on the wall, with reverence.

Sweet songs filled the air - traditional, simple, and welcoming lyrics met many ears only happy to worship Mithros through music. Bells could be heard through the glass windows, small lights could be glimpsed.

If the worshipers were to look outside, the streets would be filled with adults, children, commoners and nobles alike. Men would be singing baritone in harmony with the women, whose saccharine, rich, and low voices could be heard from the rooftops. Grubby hands holding branches of candles would squeeze them in delight, eyes sparkling behind their dull hoods.

In the temple though, a priest began to say the time-honoured opening prayer to the god of law and war:

"_We welcome thee, Mithros_

_Reunite with thee_

_Rejoice with thee –"_

The rather emotional of the adults actually put their handkerchiefs to use; they became lost in the meaning and aura coming off the community. Children acknowledged Mithros in their own way by singing and clapping. Sterner nobles, such as Wyldon, stared straight ahead; their eyes were fixed on the priest; their concentration did not waver.

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><p>Trudging homeward was very much a challenge. The snow had built up overtime, making it deep and settled in the ground. Multiple times Wyldon tried to curse, but the simple touch of Vivienne's smooth hand restrained him.<p>

"It's Midwinter, Wyl."

They passed small, poor houses, scantily festooned with faded ribbons and broken wreaths.

"We will soon be home, my lord, do not compare your home to theirs. Don't fret." Vivienne had caught him looking intently at his surroundings.

"Yes, you are right, my dear, our guests will soon arrive." His hard brown eyes softened.

Last minute arrangements were made, last trays of food were thrust onto fire, clothes were straightened, and hands were dusted. Candles were lit and glasses were laid. The tablecloth was elegantly spread, and not a stain was to be seen. Vivienne and Margarry were sitting poised in their seats, and Wyldon looked ready to accept his guests at the head of the table.

At last, a footman announced the arrival of the Duke and Duchess of King's Reach and a companion of theirs, Maxanian of King's Reach. They were quite regal and sat with directness. A no-nonsense air surrounded the group, but most of all it circulated the duchess, whose simple mahogany dress enhanced her look of practicality.

"How are you this evening?" asked Vivienne conversationally.

"We are fine, thank you," the Duchess supplied. "Are we waiting for other guests?"

"Yes, there are three more families coming. We just wanted a small gathering."

"Ah." The Duchess was plainly not impressed. She seemed to go by the more modern custom of a larger assembly.

The tall woman looked around derisively and sniffed the air. "Hm. Mint and herb. Too customary and too strong for my liking."

Wyldon, miffed, said coldly, "The servant will bring in the eggnog and water shortly."

Sensing her host's tone, she finally broke off the offending conversation and pursed her lips.

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><p>At last, the more amiable Markus and Nomalia of Veldine swept through the door. "Hello Vivienne - how nice of you to invite us! Oh, Markus has <em>such <em>news..."

Margarry expertly cut off Nomalia before she went into a full-blown string of gossip. "I can imagine, Lady Nomalia. How are crops faring in Veldine?"

Nomalia paused, surprised. This surely wasn't a fascinating topic. "They're doing well, dear, though wheat is quite expensive at this time of year." She paused. "We are waiting for one more family, are we not? I am rather famished."

"Well, the usual practice is to wait until all the guests arrive before we begin to eat." Wyldon's voice was frost.

"Oh, I understand, my lord. I just couldn't think of any other comment to make."

"I see," Wyldon said slowly.

"Will we read the tribute to Mithros now?" inquired Markus.

The training master responded through gritted teeth. "That is recited _after _the meal."

"Oh."

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><p>Wyldon groaned and put his head in hands. "So much for the old customs, long honoured by my faithful ancestors -<p>

"Husband, _please._"


End file.
